Paint it Black
by Zilchtastic
Summary: Without anything to scream about, Dean can't tell which way is up. **SPOILERS for Season 4. Don't read this one if you're not caught up.**


The thing about Hell is that one pain never blurs into another. Every sensation is crisp, clean, clear as a photograph from start to finish. It's easy to lose count of the individual blows and slices and gouges and cuts and burns, but despite that they never roll themselves into one knot of pain. Each new touch rings loud as a bell, every time.

Every. Fucking. _Time_.

The other thing about Hell is that there's no passing out, no oblivion or sleep or mercy, no blankness to wash it all away and start over again. The body cannot forget, because there _is_ no body, not really-- so even a reprieve is not a reprieve. It just hurts a little more each time, building and growing and rushing up and up long past the point of tolerance, long past the point of screaming, long past the point of unconciousness or death or even madness. There's no escape when you're already dead. There's nowhere left to go. You've already fallen as low as it's possible to fall.

And no one can save you.

Dean held on to hope for far longer than most, holding it tight, squeezing it down until he couldn't remember the shape or the feel or the taste that was _hope_ and knew it was there only by the sound. Every day for years-- _years_-- he screamed it, and demons cackled gleefully, amused by his choice. So many cried for God, they told him; so many screamed the Lord's name, or the Holy Mother's, or even the saints'. Dean never even considered those. They'd never helped him much anyway.

_Sam! Sammy!_

They cut his throat when it got too annoying, and he tried to scream it still when his throat filled up with blood. Sometimes they made bets with each other to see how many times he would say it, or how soon he would start, or what it would take to make him stop. But it never really stopped-- even when there was nothing left to scream with, it was there, ringing in his mind.

_SAM!_

It got him by for a long, long time. It was thirty years before they broke him, and when he finally stopped calling for his brother it was because he didn't want Sam to save him now. He didn't want Sam to see what he'd become.

***

Getting out of Hell is almost as bad as being there when you're convinced you didn't really deserve to leave.

That doesn't stop the relief that rushes through Dean when he digs himself out of his own grave. It doesn't kill the fear or the disbelief or the confusion, but that's fine-- it's still there, liquid and warm under everything else. It's almost terrifying that for a few long moments Dean can't figure out a way to orient himself, not because there's suddenly a sun blinking in his eyes or a cool breeze sliding through his hair, but because he _doesn't hurt enough_. His throat is a ruin, dry and sore and rusty with disuse, and every bit of him _aches_, bone-deep and stiff, but none of that is enough to even focus on. Without anything to scream about, Dean can't tell which way is up.

He figures it out eventually, mostly because the living mind is merciful in its own meaty imperfect way. Memory recedes; for a while it even vanishes, and Dean is able to climb to his feet, able to walk away from the fallen-tree ruin that rings his grave-marker with eerie precision. Sweet blankness sets in, tender and dark, and Dean welcomes it as much as he welcomes his first cool drink of water.

When he touches that place at the edge of his mind the memory of pain comes searing back, so he leaves it alone, thinking _Not now, not yet_. Nothing will keep it locked up forever, but for the first time in (four months, the paper says it's been only four months) a long time, Dean remembers the feeling of hope.

He's alive, and in the world, and somewhere in this world there is Sam.

***

It's weeks after he got out, and they're sitting in a kitschy small-town cafe. Everything is all right, or as all right as anything can ever be again. That doesn't account for the way Dean's stomach clenches, cold and tight, when he glances around and catches sight of one of the witty hand-painted signs on the wall: _Hell is other people_.

_No_, he thinks savagely, _No it isn't. You'd know that if you'd been. You'd look around and you'd be grateful and you'd fucking _know.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is soft, gentle, like he's trying to talk down a spooked horse. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing." Dean shakes his head, plasters on a fake grin. "I'm fine, Sammy."

"Then let go of my wrist," Sam says, just as gently, and Dean looks down to find himself squeezing livid white marks into his brother's skin. He lets go fast and looks away, faster.

"Sorry, Sam," he mumbles, voice gone rough, and he reaches for his orange juice to try and cover it up. He forgets to drink it and just holds it there, fingers going stiff around the cool glass.

"Dean--" Sam begins, and it's the wrong thing to do. For a brief moment Dean flashes on blood and sulfur and raw, raw screaming, of the heat and the hurt and the sound of his brother's name. It drowns out the sunny cafe and the sound of Sam's voice and everything else until Sam grips his wrist, hard, making him spill the orange juice. Dean stares at the little bright puddle, uncomprehending as it rushes over the edge of the table to patter on the floor.

_It's not blood. That isn't blood. Blood doesn't drip like that._

It brings Dean back, that thought. He looks down at his wrist, at Sam's long fingers squeezed tight to his skin.

"Hurting me, Sammy," he says, clearing his throat with a cough.

Sam's fingers loosen, and that's when Dean's other hand comes up to slap them back down, to keep them there just as tight.

"It's fine," he grates, unable to look his brother in the eye. "I can deal with a little pain, you know."


End file.
